The c***k of bone hitting wet tile echoed louder than the shattering glass.
Michael was on his knees. The Blood Sovereign. The underground nightmare who had snapped a warden’s neck with two casual fingers. He was kneeling in a pile of jagged, glittering shards, and he didn't even flinch as the edges sliced through his ruined suit pants and bit into his skin.
He was staring up at her.
Jane looked down at him. She felt the cold air biting at her wet, flushed skin. She felt the microscopic sting of a glass splinter against her bare calf. She felt the heavy, thudding pulse of her own heart against her ribs.
She wasn't floating.
The clinical white room in her mind—the sterile box where she had locked away every humiliation, every terrifying touch, every ounce of dread for twenty-two years—
